Apple Blossom Time (38 page)

At the end of the trestle, Vee collected a plate piled high with doughnuts and took it to a free table. We all sat down and Vee offered the plate around. Pansy just stared at it.

‘Do you think,’ she asked in awe, ‘I could possibly take one back to Jonathan?’

‘Sure. Look, there’s plenty.’ Vee raised her voice. ‘Heinz, can we have a paper bag over here?’ She tipped half a dozen doughnuts into the bag. ‘Now make sure he eats them tonight. No saving them for tomorrow. They’ll be stale by then.’

‘Oh, we can’t … he couldn’t…’

‘Why not? Let the kid get sick if he wants. He won’t get the chance again, not for a long time. I’d send him back some ice-cream if I could work out how. Has he never tasted ice-cream? Jennifer just loves peach. Peach for a little peach, I tell her.’

I made a pig of myself. When we’d eaten three doughnuts each, Pansy and I licked the sugar off our fingers. We looked at each other and laughed.

‘You’ve got cinnamon on the end of your nose, Laura.’

‘So’ve you. Why go to America, Vee? Seems to me you’ve got everything you want here.’

‘All except Carlton. I’ve got a sneaky feeling that if I don’t get myself over there quick, he’ll find some nice down-home girl to console him. Shouldn’t be long now, though. I’ve got my name down on the first ship out.’

It was such fun to see her again. We walked round the park, pushing little Carlton in his pram and playing hide and seek through the trees with Jennifer. We laughed a lot and cried a little and hugged and laughed again.

And we all knew that we would probably never be together again.

*   *   *

There were so many questions I ought to have asked Dr Whitlock. I had been so distressed by his memories that I’d been unable to put my thoughts together in a logical manner. Now, too late, they buzzed around my brain.

Taken away by a doctor on the headquarters staff, he’d said. Who? Did he know him? Which headquarters? Where had they been based? What had been their authority? Who else had seen them? What did other people say? What did they guess?

But when I’d telephoned, Mrs Whitlock said that her husband was too busy to talk to me. When I’d suggested calling back at a more convenient time, the poor woman had ummed and aahed, but quite clearly gave me the impression that there never would be a convenient time for me.

I’d gone a long way along the road with my father, but now it seemed as though I had reached a point where I could accompany him no longer.

Dear Madam

I am informed by Mr Paxton that you are looking for men who knew your late father Captain Ansty. Mr Paxton and I are old pals. We signed on together in August 1914 and did our basic training together. Then we were posted together to the same regiment but he became a sergeant major and I never did get further than corporal. Well he had the brains and I had the brawn. That is what I always used to say anyway. After the war he was kind enough to see that I got a job with the Corps of Commissionaires. Well life was hard then and too many old soldiers looking for a job. Mrs Maltby and I were living in an old railway carriage in a field no life for a wife and the little ones always coughing. So now I am his doorman and have been these nineteen years past and when I have to salute him in the morning we have a good laugh about it. I was on guard outside your late father’s door all the night before he was taken away. An awful job but the good thing was that the RSM would not pick me for the firing party as I had been up all night and would not shoot straight. No-one wanted to be picked well no-one ever does and we all tried to find jobs out of the way of the RSM’s eye but someone has to do it in the end. Well your father was a gentleman and well liked by the rank and file and none of us thought it was right and I know the 2i/c was afraid there might be trouble so the clerks heard but there were orders so there you are what can you do. Lots of things happened in war that I would not care to put a name to now. Now just before it got light a truck comes up and two officers and two provost sergeants went in to see your father I don’t suppose he was asleep I don’t suppose he had closed an eye all night poor boy. I got talking to the driver the way you do and we had a cigarette together and I remember he told me that he was detailed to drive to some hospital. I remember this because I thought it was odd and I said are you sure and he said don’t you think I know where I’m supposed to be driving. I am sorry to say that I don’t remember the name of the hospital because it was not a place I had been to and all French names sound the same to me and anyway it was a long time ago but I am certain that is where they were going if that is any help to you. I was sent on leave that day which was a nice surprise as I was not coming up on the roster for a long time and our second made his appearance in the world due to that leave which all goes to show these things are meant to be. After that I was posted away and that is all I know. I hope you will be kind enough to pass my respects to Mr Roding who I understand is now your stepfather. He will remember me just say my name.

Yours truly

Stanley Maltby

(ex-corporal Princess Augusta’s Own)

‘A hospital?’ Martin read the end of the letter again. ‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t think.’

‘What would be the point of taking away a condemned man? At the last minute?’

‘To avoid trouble? The letter says that the second-in-command – that beastly man Carterton again – thought there might be trouble.’

‘So they bundled him away, before anyone else was up. That makes sense. They could have taken him to another unit, to strangers.’ Martin shuddered. ‘God, how vicious. But to a hospital? You don’t send men to hospital to be killed.’

‘And they sent the guard on leave – that day, too. And then he was posted.’

‘So that he wouldn’t be able to gossip? I think we’re reading too much into this, Laura.’

‘I know, I know. I just can’t help it. All my life, my father has been a ghostly figure, someone I had to believe in, because everyone has a father, but I was supposed to believe in him like Pansy believes in the Holy Ghost – she doesn’t need to see Him to know that He’s there. She has complete faith, but I wanted more proof. I always had a sneaking sympathy for doubting Thomas. Now, in the last few months, people who knew my father are practically falling out of the trees. And we’ve heard the same story twice. My father was driven away from the regimental lines one morning and they never saw or heard of him again. And no-one asked where or why. It frightens me. Martin, think of a reason.’

Martin wedged his back more comfortably against the tree trunk and drew me close to him. I fitted perfectly into the crook of his arm. He kissed the top of my head, but absentmindedly, without passion.

‘Well, then – they may have taken him to another unit and shot him.’

‘No known grave,’ I countered.

‘The vehicle may have been blown to smithereens on the way there – wherever
there
might be.’

‘That’s possible,’ I acknowledged, reluctantly. ‘It would make a convenient explanation. Or?’

‘They may actually have taken him to this supposed hospital, after all.’

‘But why?’

‘I don’t know. You didn’t ask me that, remember?’

‘I’m asking you now.’

Martin was quiet for a while. He didn’t hurry to soothe me, to find an answer that would shut me up and make me happy. He would never take the easy way. I could trust him not to do that.

‘Supposing…’ he said, slowly, at last, ‘supposing the death sentence had been confirmed – for the sake of example – and the execution arranged … supposing someone wanted to avoid killing him…’

‘Who?’ I demanded. ‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. Don’t interrupt. Supposing someone wanted to halt it – what would he do? Persuade the C-in-C to change his mind? Possibly. Someone very influential might be able to do that. The messenger on a white horse comes galloping in waving a pardon just as the rifles are raised – very Hollywood. Dicey. There might not be time. How awful if the C-in-C was having dinner with the King that night and didn’t get home until after midnight and the messenger galloped in just as the rifles were lowered. Or again – and it would still have to be someone who could pull strings, someone of sufficiently high rank to be above question – it might be possible simply to spirit your father away. Order out an escort, give them an appropriately signed piece of paper – who’s going to question it? the corporal on the door? a subaltern who’s been in France for two days? – and the prisoner is whisked away to … ah, well, that’s the problem, isn’t it?’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ I scoffed.

‘Well, you asked me a silly question. What sort of answer did you think you’d get? But you could make it fit, if you wanted to badly enough. What do we know? Barely an hour before he was due to face a firing squad, your father was carted off in a closed vehicle and disappeared. The implication is that the execution has taken place elsewhere. So the battalion is given its terrible example, the CO’s bloodlust and the regimental honour – which, in this case, might be the same thing – are (presumably) satisfied, but the mysterious meddler gets what he wants and the victim just disappears. I know it’s far-fetched, but it’s the best I can do.’

‘But … disappears for a quarter of a century?’

‘No. It’s too ridiculous.’

‘I want to believe you, Martin.’

‘I know. That’s what worries me.’

I’m standing with my back to the school playground railings. They crowd me against the bars. I can feel each iron rod pressing into my back and the gap between each. They’re all there. Dennis Rudge. Billy Kimber with only one leg now. Josie Pocknell with her children, one white, one black. The two Thurlow boys.

‘Le’s see you run, then,’ they chant. ‘Le’s see you run like your old man.’

‘I haven’t got an old man,’ I answer.

And they all laugh. I’d said something funny. It must be a joke, then, and they aren’t really going to hurt me. But they push and poke and jostle. They’re trying to pull the petals off the poppy in my buttonhole. It’s as big as a dinner plate and there are hundreds, thousands of petals. It’ll take all day to pluck it. They love me, they love me not.

I look round for Martin. I know he should be there. I’ve reached the point in my dream when he ought to appear. He always does. Petals fall at my feet, swaths of scarlet, countless, and each one has a name on it.

‘Stop, stop!’ I shout. ‘Give me time. I can’t read them all.’

I’m down on my knees, frantically picking up petals and throwing them down again. There are so many. How will I ever find the one I want? James’s name is inscribed on one. Grace’s name is there on another. I knew they would be. I put them in my pocket. When I get home, I’ll look for an eraser. I can rub their names out and then everything’ll be all right. My father’s name isn’t there, though. But he must be somewhere. I’ll find him, I know I’ll find him. If only I have the time, if only I look hard enough.

I look and look, but the pile of petals is so deep and more are falling all the time.

And then, at last, Martin is there. He takes my hand and pulls me to my feet. He takes the petals from my grasp and drops them to the ground. He brushes them from my hair.

‘He isn’t there,’ he tells me. ‘You’re looking in the wrong place.’

Of course …

*   *   *

All along, I’d been making an assumption. I’d assumed that my father had died on the day that was appointed for his death. But what did I have to prove that? Nothing. No witnesses. No record of burial. No grave.

There were plenty of people who could say to me, ‘Your father was shot.’ But I had not yet discovered a single person who could say, ‘Your father was shot on such-and-such a day, at such-and-such a time, in such-and-such a place.’

Only an assumption. Supposing, for some reason, I wanted to prove his death. I could go to court and ask a judge to pronounce. Do you think he would? What evidence could I offer? Where was the death certificate? Who had seen him die?

Yet my mother had married Tom. She could have had no doubts.

This made no sense. It was madness.

*   *   *

Yes, I could make myself believe. I could squeeze and trim and shove until, like the slipper on the feet of Cinderella’s sisters, the story had to fit.

‘Pay no attention,’ Martin had said. ‘I was just thinking aloud. I didn’t mean it. I wish I’d never started the stupid idea.’

But he had. And now he’d put it into my head, I couldn’t think of anything else. That hippopotamus, again.

My bed seemed too narrow, the ceiling too low, the mice in the attic too active, Tom’s snores too loud, my pyjamas too scratchy. My thoughts spiralled and jinked like planes in a dogfight.

Martin and I both knew how muddled the simplest thing could become on active service. SNAFU. Situation Normal All Fucked Up. Units were moving in and out without proper handovers. Messages were being delayed. You’d have weapons without ammunition, ammunition without weapons. People were being killed, for God’s sake. How easy it was to lose something.

Lost half your kit or flogged it to the locals for souvenirs? If you had a chum in the stores, he’d see you all right, for a consideration. Pranged a staff car? The MT corporal would swear blind it had been hit by a divine thunderbolt and certify it BER – Beyond Economic Repair – if you chatted him up nicely.

Lost a man? Not really. Not if you had a signature for him.

As long as you had a signed and stamped chitty, you could sell the regimental silver on a market stall. No-one would notice or care. The paperwork was the important thing.

Given that, where would he be taken? Where could he be hidden? The war had been almost over. Supposing he had been in hospital in France, by November, December at the latest, they would all have been closed down. Anyway, there were no long-term occupants of beds in overseas hospitals. Men either died, or were cured, or were shipped back to England.

So what about military hospitals in England? There were so many, in all the major garrisons – Aldershot, Tidworth, Colchester, Catterick. All crammed with men. All with archives that must go back to the Boer War or further, perhaps right back to the days of Florence Nightingale. I couldn’t search them all. And there had been so many other hospitals, only temporary, set up in large houses to deal with the surges of casualties that followed each major offensive. What had happened to their records?